My little sister clutched tightly at my hand, trailing along behind me as we made our way up the steps into church. Every so often I heard her mumble something like, this is going to be so boring. Secretly, I agreed with her.

Every Sunday morning the family attended mass at Saint Aloysius Catholic Church, and every Sunday, I hated it.

Rosie hated it because she was five and was incapable of sitting still for longer than a couple minutes. That, and she always tried to steal from the collection basket.

I hated it because of the reminder it brought.     

If you'd asked me six years ago I probably would've said my favorite weekend activity was going to mass. Not because I'd ever felt super religious, but because of the routine that came with it.

I enjoyed the process of scoping out the best spot in the pews to the right-hand side of the altar, near the choir. I liked being able to hear my mother sing because if there was anyone on Earth who had the voice of an angel, it was without a doubt Regina Morales. 

But arguably the best part was when it was just me and my dad – my real dad, not the POS human being I happened to be related to biologically. Chris Morales had been a lifelong practicing Catholic just like my mother, but he'd also been a prankster with a short attention span that mirrored my own.

How my mother had expected to leave the two of us alone during mass without getting up to some kind of mischief was a mystery to me, yet she did every Sunday. 

"Hurry!" my grandmother hissed at me as we entered the church. "Our spot's about to be taken!"

She quickened her stride, bypassing a couple of older men congregating at the back of the church, and my mom raced after her.

Rosie blew a raspberry. "Why do we have to do this every Sunday, Archer?"

"No idea, squirt," I answered honestly.

Before, Chris and I used to spend our time practicing origami with the dollar bills we would throw into the collection basket. We also mortally offended some old woman once by amusing ourselves making shadow puppets against the tiled floor during the homily.

I was never going to consider myself a firm believer in God or whatever, but I liked going because it meant I got to spend that time with my dad. 

Now it was just a painful reminder that I would never have that time with him again.

"Still no church school, huh?" Rosie asked as we followed our mom.

"Next year," I said. "Gotta be in kindergarten first."

She blew another, much louder raspberry, and I quickly ushered her along before we got any dirtier looks.

I took the spot at the end of the pew, earning me a glare from my grandmother when I didn't genuflect. I barely remembered to stand or kneel at the appropriate times, completely forgot the sign of the cross, and spent more time keeping an eye on Rosie than paying attention to whatever the priest was saying.

Once mass was over, there was a mad rush of parishioners going next door to the old church hall for coffee and donuts. My mom and grandma lagged behind to talk to a few of the ladies from the choir while I took Rosie over for a donut.

"Oooh! I'm going to get a pink sprinkled donut," she sang excitedly as we walked. "With lots and lots of frosting."

I tried not to gag. Yuck.

Rosie scowled up at me when I didn't agree with her. "What, you don't like donuts?"

"No," I said. "I prefer cherry Danishes."

"Well, luckily for you, I happen to have just that very thing!"

The elderly woman in a green floral dress suddenly standing in front of us just inside the church hall, tray of pastries in hand, almost had me jumping back a step in alarm. 

Mrs. Gagliano was one of the oldest parishioners at Saint Aloysius, but she still made baked goods each weekend to share after mass even though she had to be pushing ninety by now. She always liked to have a variety of goodies to offer – hence the Danishes -- even though she was known for her legendary pizzelles.

"Hi, Mrs. Gagliano," I said, somewhat uncomfortably. "That's...very nice of you."

She nodded toward the last cherry Danish on the tray. "For you, dear."

I stared at the Danish. It did look good, and for one split second, I considered taking it. I felt myself start to reach for it before my brain caught up with the rest of my body and I remembered why I couldn't have this specific cherry Danish.

If this were a Danish from one of the bakeries we partnered with to sell at Mama Rosa's, sure. I could eat as many as I wanted, no problem. But one of Mrs. Gagliano's cherry Danishes, right after Sunday mass? Permanently off limits.

"No, thanks." I hated the way my mouth had gone all dry, the way my heart skipped a painful beat. "It's just – big breakfast."

Mrs. Gagliano looked genuinely disappointed by my response and an apology leapt to the tip of my tongue that I struggled to bite back. 

This was just a stupid Danish. I was allowed to say no.

"Oh. That's alright then, I suppose." Mrs. Gagliano's kind smile made the hot guilt bubbling in the pit of my stomach boil even more. "Maybe next time."

Rosie stepped in then to politely ask for one of the donuts on her tray, and Mrs. Gagliano was only too happy to oblige. 

I made my escape once my grandmother made an appearance to take over with Rosie while she stuffed her face with a donut. 

There was a frigid bite to the air outside, nipping at my hands as I took a seat on an old stone bench nearby. I tried to focus on the cold rather than the way my heart wouldn't stop pounding, or the sudden nausea.

I buried my face in my hands and tried to do some deep breathing. My thoughts were racing almost sickeningly and all because of a stupid Danish. I couldn't figure out why, for the first time in years, I'd been about to take one of Mrs. Gagliano's cherry Danishes after mass.

I'd reached for the thing without a second thought, and now all this guilt was only making the nausea worse. When had I decided that it was okay to break my pact of never having one of those stupid Danishes after Sunday mass again? 

Better yet -- where had that pact even come from? Like my dad would be pissed at me over a Danish.

"Ahem."

I jerked my head up at the sound of my grandmother's gruff voice and saw her standing in front of me, lips pursed in disapproval.

"Where's Rosie?" I asked, her absence immediately noticeable.

"Your sister dumped a cup of juice down her dress," my grandma answered stiffly. "Mrs. Rossi took her to the bathroom to get cleaned up, but with that being said, it's --"

"Time to go," I finished for her. 

My grandma gestured toward the church. "Your mother should be done talking to Father Leo by now."

Her unspoken request was obvious: go get your mother.

"On it," I mumbled, getting to my feet. 

I left without a backward glance, making my way down the sidewalk, around the side of the church to the main entrance. Mass couldn't have ended more than fifteen minutes ago, but I was surprised at how quiet the place had become.

I quickly located my mother in the last pew toward my right just inside the church. She was kneeling, her head bowed, and it didn't take a genius to figure out she was obviously praying. 

I couldn't think of a time where I'd personally been convinced by the power of prayer, so I didn't think twice about going over to interrupt and let my mom know my grandma was itching to leave.

But when I heard what my mother was saying in prayer, I came up short, freezing where I stood. I was hearing my name muttered a few too many times, along with help and keep safe and loved.

She finished her prayer with a quiet amen and made the sign of the cross before getting to her feet. By the time she noticed me, I must've done a decent job putting a normal expression on my face because my mother only said, "Oh, hi, sweetheart. Did you and Rosie get your donuts?"

Whatever words came out of my mouth were an appropriate response, apparently, and my mom nodded, gesturing behind me toward the exit.

"Ready to go then?" 

"Yeah, I..." My voice came out a croak, and I had to clear my throat before speaking again. "Sure. Let's go home."

I felt like I was lost in a daze on the way home, replaying my mother's words over and over again in my mind. A part of me was I glad I hadn't seen her face as she was praying because my gut was telling me she had looked heartbroken. 

Her voice had certainly sounded that way and I didn't know what to make of it. This couldn't have been the first time my mother had prayed for me – she'd never kept her faith a secret.

If I'd ever had any kind of faith to begin with, it was long gone now, because if there was a God, the guy must've found enjoyment in screwing around with me.

And all this was doing was making me feel incredibly guilty. 

Didn't my mother have better things to worry about than me? I couldn't keep from overanalyzing every one of our interactions lately, wondering where I messed up and had made her worry more than she should have. 

This was exact opposite of what was supposed to be happening. I needed my mother not to worry about me. 

I was still caught up in those tangled thoughts when my mom stopped me later on the way inside the back door at Mama Rosa's.

"Are you okay, son?" she asked, a hand on my arm.

"Yeah," I mumbled, forcing myself to meet her gaze. I was suddenly desperate for this to be true, that I was okay, that my mom didn't need to be worrying about me like this. I didn't want her to feel like she had to pray for me the way she had been earlier. What good was that going to do? "I'm okay. Promise."

For one second I thought she was about to keep pushing, but my mom let it go, squeezing my arm before she took a step back. "Okay."

"I am," I insisted. "I just... I need to get a bit of homework done, if that's okay? Before we open."

We always opened late on Sundays so there was time to go to church.

"Of course."

I was halfway up the stairs to the apartment when I heard my mom call after me.

"Oh, and son? Please make sure you reach out to Hadley and let her know her first shift is this Tuesday after school."

"Yeah, sure!" I shouted back, maybe a little too harshly.

Interestingly enough, that thought – the fact that Hadley Jamison was going to be officially employed at Mama Rosa's day after next -- was enough to distract me from everything else – at least, temporarily.